“Continuance request denied, Mr. Blake!” Antunez leaned forward in a silent, heated face-off.
Colton backed away and took his seat next to me, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched.
“Mr. Mitchell, please call your first witness.”
The prosecutor stood quickly. “The State calls Camilla Reyes.”
The hotel maid I’d met on that Saturday took the stand, looking terrified. She glanced at me quickly, then looked down as ADA Mitchell started questioning her about her name, place of employment, and the moment she’d discovered Winston’s body.
I couldn’t listen.
I blocked everything out, letting my mind wander.
Things had changed between Colton and me since the Avery Sinclair conversation. No more hand-holding, hugging, or reassuring words when I was overwhelmed with fear. No more brief moments of respite shared on the back patio. He stiffened whenever I got close, as if my presence repulsed him to the core. It made me feel small, the rejection and judgment crushing my already fragile psyche.
But he was still committed to defending me. The night before, neither of us had slept much. Colton had worked on the new strategy while Billy Ray and I watched hours of surveillance video. At about three in the morning, I’d found the time code when Claire had knocked on Winston’s door at the hotel—4:32 p.m. The mall video showed that Claire had been in a large apparel store at that time, shopping. I had her going into the store at 4:11 p.m., dressed in a red top and black skirt—just like Detective Stanek had said—and looking at her phone at times, probably texting with her friends. Then she’d left the store at 5:07 p.m., loaded with shopping bags, and met with friends for coffee and chocolates. Unless that store had a back door and I could prove she’d snuck out, I had nothing.
Since the moment I’d realized that, I’d been feeling aloof, spinning out of control, knowing I was careening through this masquerade of a trial and headed for disaster. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Colton about what I’d found.
Next to me, Colton sprang to his feet, startling me into present reality. “Objection, Your Honor. The witness is not qualified—”
“Sustained,” Antunez said.
“No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
“Cross, Mr. Blake?” the judge asked.
Colton rose halfway from his seat. “Not at this time, Your Honor.” He sat back down without looking at me.
I wished he would’ve glanced at me with that glimmer of encouragement I needed so badly. That was gone, and I couldn’t even ask him why. Although, I suppose I knew. He’d discovered things about me he wasn’t prepared to hear.
Camilla Reyes hurried out of the courtroom, her head lowered and her shoulders hunched forward, as if she wanted to disappear even faster than she was about to.
The judge made an inviting gesture to the prosecutor.
“The State calls Lydia Vargas, Your Honor.” Mitchell waited, standing, for a middle-aged woman with an aquiline nose and sharp eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Her face was wrinkled badly for her age. She seemed cool, unfazed by taking the stand.
After she was sworn in, ADA Mitchell stepped forward with a purposeful stride, locking eyes with the witness. “Ms. Vargas, in what capacity are you testifying today?”
“I’m a forensics expert with the Crime Scene Investigations unit of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. I was in charge of the evidence in this case.” She spoke clearly, calmly.
“Let’s start with the murder weapon, Ms. Vargas. What were your findings?” Mitchell’s voice was steady, but with an edge that hinted at the gravity of the situation.
“The murder weapon was a bottle ofVisineeye drops that had been tampered with. It contained a dangerously high concentration of methamphetamine.” The jurors followed her words closely, jotting down occasional notes.
“How did these eye drops cause Mr. Donovan’s death?”
“At the concentration of methamphetamine found in these eye drops, even a small dose would have caused a rapid and fatal heart attack in Mr. Winston Donovan. Additionally, the tampered eye drops led to ocular hemorrhaging—severe bleeding within the eyes—due to the immense pressure on his cardiovascular system.”
Hearing her words, I felt physical pain, a crushing sensation in my chest. If I closed my eyes, I could see Winston’s body, his face smeared with blood, the way I’d seen it in the crime scene photos now burned into my memory.
Mitchell took a step closer. “And, Ms. Vargas, whose fingerprints were found on that bottle?”
The forensics expert looked directly at the jury. “Olivia Taylor’s fingerprints were found on theVisinebottle. However, at the scene, there were no—”
Mitchell took one step closer to the witness stand. “Ms. Vargas, what did you find after analyzing Ms. Taylor’s computer?”
Colton fidgeted in his seat, then scribbled something on a notepad, underlining it twice so furiously that the pen ripped the paper.
